Rusty Bicycles, Mr. Lee

I'm feeling the slightest cool afternoon breeze blow across the back of my sunburnt neck as I listen to the whine of rust being shaved off an old bicycle with a drill outside my window. Tony is asleep on the couch over here, and Spencer in the trailer over there. The new family cat, Chonto, who resists knowing any better, just walked across the computer keyboard I'm slouching over, twice. Although he kept me up late with his unpredictable head landings the first night, I still can't abandon mercy in my response to his persistant naughtiness. There's a part of me that never seems to die that holds out hope for naughty cats and people. So I throw Chonto off the keyboard, but just before I release him at full speed into the screen door, I slow my hand down and soften his landing. A careful balance between forces has run like a thread through the days of this tour.

Like last Friday, when we played at the Whiskey a Go Go. We were eagerly anticipating playing the same gig our heroes had made history in, like Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, and Led Zeppelin. However, as soon as the high school band who played before us asked their girlfriend to prom over the mic, it sunk in. That night, we had paid for our admission to Disneyland for bands. Literally, we paid for our spot. The music from each band clashed with the other bands, like the people in line at a rollercoaster clash in styles. The only difference is that you don't spend a lot of time noticing how people in a line at a theme park don't match. But with our admission paid for, we walked up on stage and gave our loyal fans the best show we could put on. And we had fun doing it. And even though the machine they made out of the Whiskey was less than what you'd dream it would be, the cogs in the wheels were all genuinely nice people. And everyone had a good time.

Or like Monday night, when our van, the Big Boy himself, broke down in the best imaginable location, the corner of the best mechanic in town. But that's not all. Let me tell you the tale. Accelerating through a turn, the van spontaneously shut off, and ER got out and pushed Big Boy to the curb, where a nice man offered to help. Time was tight, since our high school gig was at noon the next day, three hours away, and daylight had faded. The jump the man gave us didn't work, but he directed us to Mr. Lee, whose mechanic shop (right on the corner we stalled in front of) was the most trusted in the neighborhood. We happened to catch Mr. Lee at Winchell's donut shop later that night, and he said he would get up early to get us on the road. We enjoyed the snot out of a bad movie, got some yogurt, and crashed in a cheap motel. But as we wandered on foot through suburban Burbank streets at night, the smell of eucalyptus overpowered any foul city odor. The next morning, although we didn't get out of Burbank soon enough to get to our gig, we did get the nicest Vietnamese guy we'd ever met to massage our ignition system back to life. And we got donuts made by a Mexican guy whose smile made you feel cared for. And we got rides to get car parts from a recovered drug addict whose helpfulness and humor overpowered any discomfort his extremely graphic vulgarities may have caused us. And though we stayed in a sex motel, the Hindu couple running it said they'd say a prayer for us that our car would make it.

So now we're here in Santa Ynez, caught between slumber and consciousness, between expectations and indifference, between break downs and pick me ups, reveling in the great balance of it all.